“Uhm, I can? If you want me to. I might be dirty,” he answers, sounding so unsure I turn and look at him as I unbutton my shirt.
“You don’t have to, Jacko. But it’s an option if you want to. Parker has to shower at night because he’s bloody useless in the morning, but you’re free to do whatever you’d like.”
“I don’t want to get your bed all gross.” He laughs, still sounding too nervous for my liking.
“You won’t,” I tell him lightly, shrugging the dress shirt off and dropping it to the floor. His eyes fall to my stomach, hidden by an undershirt, before bouncing back up to my face. He hasn’t yet moved from his spot by the door. “I might, though, seeing as I spent the evening in a locker room with a hockey team.”
Jack smiles. I gesture toward the chair I have pushed into the corner, and mostly use for washing storage instead of sitting.
“You can put your stuff down wherever, Jacko. Make yourself at home.”
I go into the bathroom to splash some water on my face and brush my teeth, leaving the door open in welcome for Jack. After a few minutes, he comes into view, cheeks dusky and hair messy. He’s changed into a pair of cotton sleep pants that look so worn and soft, I immediately want to put my hand on them. His shirt, equally as worn, has several holes in it, offering hints at the pale, freckled tummy below. Leaning over the sink to spit, I rinse out my mouth and replace the toothbrush.
“Is it okay if I…” He gestures vaguely at the bathroom. I step aside, knowing he’d probably prefer some room to me hovering over him while he took a pee.
“All yours, Jacko.”
I leave him to it, and finally discard the rest of my game-day clothes onto the floor. I can’t stand sleeping with fabric tangled around my legs, so I settle for my usual tee-and-boxers ensemble and hope that Jack doesn’t mind. Opening my bedroom door, I slip down the hall and hover an ear overParker’s. It’s silent, and there’s no light filtering under the crack.
When I sneak back to my room, Jack is sitting ramrod straight on the end of the bed, waiting for me. His hands, resting in his lap, are moving as though he’s fidgeting with his fingers.
“Parker asleep?” he asks as I approach him.
“Think so,” I agree, stopping next to him and touching my fingertips to the top of his shoulder. “He’s quiet, anyhow, which is sometimes half the battle. Tired?”
“Yeah.” His eyes track over to the head of the bed, face pink. I slip my fingers up his neck, looking for contact with that beautiful hair. His breath hitches as I do it, but his lips also arch into a small smile.
I’m a pretty affectionate guy by nature, but it’s usually a personality trait I try and tone down. I know how confusing it might be to have a partner who can’t keep their hands off you, but doesn’t actually want to have sex. It is, in fact, the main reason most of my relationships fizzled out. Mark, who was my last attempt at not being alone, used to get hard whenever I put my hands on him and would angrily complain when I “didn’t do anything about it.” After a while, it just became easier not to reach for him. To not kiss the back of his neck, or skim my fingers over him, simply to enjoy the feel of his skin. After all, I wasn’t going todo anything about it, so better to just keep my hands to myself.
Jack leans into it though, eyelashes fluttering as I look down at him. He inhales deep enough that his shirt stretches around his ribs, the lines visible through the thin fabric.
“I’m nervous,” he mutters, annoyance twining itself around the words. He’s so hard on himself.
“That’s all right.” I brush my fingers through the hair atthe back of his head, the silken strands tickling between my fingers. I can’t believe it’s even possible for this color to be produced naturally. Gently, I tilt his face up to mine. “Your hair is exquisite.”
He laughs, a quick, startled sound that sends a blush tiptoeing across his cheeks. I brush my thumb across that too, before dropping my hand to my side.
“I cannot believe, out of all the people in the world, it wasmewho was cursed with red hair,” he tells me, standing up as I move to the head of the bed and reach for the sheets.
“I like it. Draws attention to the freckles, and those pretty eyes.” I tug down the sheets, Jack doing the same on the other side. “It’s like a sign, letting everyone know to look over here because there’s a beautiful man.”
“So, what you’re saying is you like all the things I hate about myself,” he comments, chuckling and shaking his head.
I frown, not particularly liking that. If Parker told me he hated something about himself, I’d sit him down for a conversation that would embarrass the hell out of the both of us.
“There is no part of you that you, or anyone else, should be hating,” I tell him firmly, which makes him flush around a pleased smile.
I slide into the bed, leaning over to plug my phone into the wall charger. The mattress dips as Jack joins me, the tentativeness of the movement apparent even without me looking at him. I click the lamp down to the lowest setting, not wanting to put us into full dark yet, but needing to keep the room dim and cozy. Just us.
Jack is sitting up when I turn toward him, sliding down to lie on my side facing him. He watches me, the fingers on hisleft hand fiddling with the sheet he pulled up to his lap. I wait, not wanting to rush him. He’d said before that he was nervous, but there’s a distinct difference with how Jack projects that emotion. When he was in the locker room, or on the ice, his nerves had a physical presence to them—a shadow of fear butting up against the anxiety and nudging him toward panic. There’s the low, simmering sort of discomfort that is as much a part of him as his red hair and amber eyes. And then there is this, the uneasiness slipping through in the form of restless fingers and eyes that reach everything but mine.
He's not scared, though, and that’s the important thing to me. It’s understandable that he’d be on edge. As long as that doesn’t teeter over into panic or alarm, we’ll be okay.
He slides down next to me eventually, huffing a soft laugh and reaching below the blankets to fix the legs of his sleep pants. I’m pleased, and a little surprised, that he’s left barely a foot of space between us. We’re mirror images of one another—a pair of apostrophes with the blanket stretched between. Jack slides his arm under the pillow, scrunching it beneath his cheek, and smiles at me. It’s a smile that makes me hurt a little bit to see it—relaxed and happy and content in a way that Jack so rarely is.
“I’m pretty proud of myself for being here,” he tells me, the words strong even beneath the embarrassment for having said that out loud. “I’ve never done this before.”
“It’s strange,” I agree, shifting a touch closer to him, “to sleep in the same bed with someone for the first time. Sometimes, it keeps being strange even after that first time.”
